He is Risen
by BloodFromTheThorn
Summary: Tim wakes up in a cell with an annoyingly cheerful Nightwing and really everything just goes downhill from there. Post Arkham Knight.


_The title comes from the inscription on a tomb I saw in Germany: 'Er ist nicht hier. Er ist auferstanden.' (He is not here. He is risen.)_

 _Post-Arkham Knight, though that will become obvious._

* * *

Tim knew before he opened his eyes that he wasn't going to like what he saw. There was a pounding in his head that only ever came from either being knocked out or from drinking far too much the night before – since he couldn't remember going out, he had to assume it was the former.

He lay still for several long moments, letting the various aches and pains in his body make themselves known as loudly as they could before cracking his eyes open a slit. Almost instantly he slammed them closed again, hissing out through his teeth at the bright light assaulting his skull.

"You feel that good, huh?" Said a familiar voice with far more cheer than Tim was comfortable with.

With a great feat of will, Tim forced his eyes open again to squint at his companion. Several feet away, a slightly out of focus Dick, complete with Nightwing costume, grinned roguishly back. Tim let himself groan again.

"You could be happier to see me," Dick remarked with the same casualness he always used, no matter how dire their situation may or may not be. "Especially after you went to so much effort to find me."

That rang a bell. Tim thought hard, trying to force his mind through the concussion-fog that wove through every memory. He'd been looking for Dick, hadn't he? It was important, somehow, but he just couldn't remember…

"What happened?" He asked eventually, accepting defeat. His head was aching too fiercely to work at its usual, unstoppable, rate.

A concern that he couldn't hide flickered through Dick's eyes, but his cocksure grin remained firmly fixed in place, ever one to maintain appearances. "You don't remember? They must have hit you harder than I thought. Could explain why you were out for so long."

"Long?" Full sentences seemed like too much work when he felt so awful.

"A good few hours at least. I was starting to get worried." To anyone that didn't know him, Dick would sound like he was making light of it, making a joke, but Tim knew he well enough to see through that to the genuine concern underneath. He'd never admit it but Nightwing cared about people more than almost anyone else Tim knew.

Hoping to erase the feeling, Tim forced his aching body to move despite the pain it caused. His hands were bound, he noted absently, but they were still in front of him – whoever had tied them was clearly idiotic – so he could use them to lever himself into a sitting position. There was a chain around one of his ankles that tethered him to the floor with only a foot or so of slack to allow him to move. Dick was similarly bound beside the opposite wall, watching him carefully.

Once upright, every ache came to life with enough vigour for him to prioritise. His skull felt as though it was made of glass – easily the worst of his injuries. All his muscles pounded quietly with the pain of deep bruises, but he'd gotten worse in training with Bruce, so he wasn't complaining. The only issue that looked as though it could become a real threat was the fact that he could feel at least one of his ribs shifting with every breath – if not completely broken then close to it. A few well aimed hits and he could be choking on his own blood.

He forced away the feeling by focusing on Nightwing. "Are you hurt?"

Dick shrugged, aiming for blasé and only just missing. "Not really. The guys here aren't my greatest fans but they've held off doing anything worse than knocking me around. You?"

"Concussed. A little confused as to why we're here."

This time Dick's smile looked a little more genuine. "I'm here because some of Penguin's thugs jumped me when I wasn't paying attention about a week ago. You're here because you're an idiot who concocted possibly the worse rescue attempt I've ever seen."

Tim tried to remember, this time managing to regain an odd sense of desperation that he couldn't really place. "I tried to rescue you?"

"And failed; rather spectacularly, actually."

"And now we're both hostages?"

"It looks that way."

"Why?"

Dick shrugged, glancing around the bare room. "They've not tried to get anything out of me. They used me to capture you but that doesn't really explain why we're both still alive. It's not like Gotham is going to pay a ransom for us and Bats-"

He bit off the end of the sentence before he said it, eyes darting away from Tim to hide the way his face suddenly darkened. Tim felt the echoing stab of pain in his chest, dulled now with time. He wasn't sure that the grief would ever really leave him but he was coming to terms with the loss, and working his way back to being a normal, functioning human being (who beat up criminals at night time – normal was a relative term among the Wayne family).

"No one's coming to save us," he finished for him, not wanting to say the awful truth out loud.

"You know what's stupid?" Dick said after a moment, his voice raw in a way that Tim had never heard. "If he swooped in to save us now, I'd be mad. Furious, even. Every time I needed him to pull my ass out the fire, I was always so angry at him for it that I barely even thanked him. It always made me feel… I don't know. Unworthy somehow."

"I know the feeling," Tim admitted. He let his aching head dip to his chest and forced himself to take a deep breath no matter how much it hurt. They'd not talked about what had happened – the whole affair had been so painful for everyone involved that no one had quite had the heart to bring it up, notwithstanding the month Tim had been forced to spend resting in bed. Now seemed as good a time as any. "You saw the footage, I presume. He took off the mask to save _me._ Last thing he ever did, the asshole." Dick knew him well enough to know that the anger wasn't anything more than shame and grief. Tim didn't have to be careful around him.

"Despite being fully aware that you won't believe me, I feel compelled to remind you that it was in no way your fault. He'd kick your ass for even thinking it." Dick's voice was kind, the sarcasm usually there completely absent.

"Yeah, he would," Tim agreed, the smallest of smiles crawling into the corner of his mouth. "We're a really fucked up family, you know that?"

Dick laughed, some of his light-heartedness back in the lines of his shoulders. "All the best ones are."

"Well, this all still leaves us being held hostage with no imminent rescue. What's the plan, Superman?"

Nightwing laughed again, eyes sparking delightedly. "You think I'm Superman? That's so sweet. Though if I was, I feel I could have gotten us out of here by now – maybe he'll show up and help us out?"

Tim considered that for a moment, but it was without hope. "I'm pretty sure he's off world right now. Besides, if the Sons of Batman start needing help from Superman, Bruce will rise out of his own grave to disown us."

"You're not wrong. So. Plan? You're supposed to be the genius here after all."

"How many men are we dealing with?"

"I've seen at least forty different faces, but not all at once. They're working on a shift basis and I'd wager there's not more than twenty here at any given time – easily doable if we can get free."

"And you've not gotten free before now because…" Nightwing was tied up, sure, but that had never been enough to stop any of them in the past.

Dick scowled darkly at the chain around his ankle. "There's something strange about the metal. Nothing I've tried has even put a dent in the damn thing and I've got no idea who has the key. They don't unlock it without knocking me out first. They're being careful."

"Not careful enough not to put us together."

Nightwing tipped his head in agreement. Between the two of them, they had more than enough brain power and brute strength to get them out of almost any scrape, and this shouldn't prove any exception. All they needed to do was get out of the chains and the rest should be plain sailing.

"Do you know where we are?" Dick asked after a few moments of thoughtful silence. He never was very good at staying quiet for long.

"Should I?"

"You found this place. When you were looking for me, you must have found something that pointed you here. I was unconscious when I arrived, and they've not moved me out of this building since – we could be anywhere in the world right now."

Tim tried to remember, failed, and turned to reason instead. "You said you'd been here about a week? If I found you in that time, I'd assume that we're in either Gotham or Blüdhaven – or the surrounding areas at least."

"That's not quite as exact as I might have hoped."

"Maybe I'll remember when my head stops pounding."

Dick grimaced in sympathy. "They've already been in here once today – that normally means they'll leave us alone until tomorrow. It gives you some time at least."

"So they just come in, rough you up, and then leave again, without asking anything?"

"Weird, right? You'd think someone going to this much trouble would make it actually worthwhile. This all feels very… Spur of the moment."

"That's… not the greatest light to cast ourselves in."

"We're both tied up with no idea where we are or who has us – how exactly do you intend to cast us in a good light?"

They were both very much aware – and unwilling to admit – that the conversation was really more for their comfort than any sense of practicality. All pertinent information had passed between them in a few heartbeats but being able to communicate, to have a firm reassurance that they were not alone was a comfort that they would both willingly indulge in. It cost them nothing.

Time passed in that jolting, agonising way it does when you're waiting for something to happen while at the same time dreading it with every piece of your soul. It wasn't until a few hours had passed that Dick shifted uncomfortably against the wall he was leaning on, grimacing a little. His armour was no doubt hiding a multitude of injuries, but if he wouldn't admit to them, there was no way for Tim to know exactly what kind of shape he was in.

"You should get some rest," he said, before Tim could ask about it. "Might help you get your head sorted out."

"When was the last time you got any real rest?"

Dick's grin was that of a child caught doing something wrong. "About a week ago. Get some sleep – I'll wake you if anything interesting starts happening. We need to be out of here at the first chance we get and that's not going to happen if you're completely out of it with a concussion."

"I hate it when you're right," Tim griped, but he let himself sag against the wall behind him, carefully resting his head against it. His skull still felt like it was made from eggshell, and he had no desire to worsen that state.

Stressed as he was, true sleep was a total impossibility. Thankfully, Bruce had been a very diligent teacher in all things, and one thing he had made sure to hammer into all of his sidekicks was the ability to meditate in any kind of situation. At times, the ability had been lifesaving; at others, it had made a bad situation just a little bit more bearable.

Tim let himself drift for a few hours, letting the aches of his physical being drift away from him until all that was left was a vague sense of self that carried no pain. It was a good place to go when he wanted to think, but right then he just wanted to let his mind relax in the hope that when it did, he'd be able to access the memories hidden behind his concussion.

He was roused a few hours later by Dick softly calling him. He blinked himself out of his meditative state as swiftly as he could, silently mourning the fact that waking brought the return of his pounding head. Everything still hurt, but he _did_ feel more solid than he had done previously – he _really_ hated it when Dick was right.

"Feeling better?" From the cocksure grin, he already knew the answer.

Tim hummed noncommittally, glancing around at the still empty room. "What's happening?"

"Someone's coming," Dick informed him, letting the grin slide away to be replaced by a serious expression. "I heard them on the stairs – that gives us probably another twenty seconds."

"Great."

"We'll be okay Robin. Just look for any way out. If you see one, take it. Don't worry about me, just get yourself out. You can come back for me later."

"They could _kill_ you Nightwing," Tim argued instantly, but it was more out of habit than anything – he wasn't convinced.

"If they wanted to, they would have done it already. I mean it. If I see a shot, I'm damn well taking it so you should to. We'll be a lot more useful on the outside than trying to find an escape plan big enough for the both of us."

Tim could hear footsteps at the door, a lock turning. They were out of time to argue. "Alright," was all he managed, before the door swung inwards and several people entered the cell.

There were four men who were entirely unknown to Tim – hired thugs he assumed, from the usual crooked noses and heavy muscles that spoke of brutality. The fifth man _was_ familiar. Black Mask. From the way Dick stiffed almost imperceptibly, Tim knew that this was a surprise to him too.

"Sionis? I heard a rumour that Hood had finished you off," Dick said, as though his mind wasn't racing. The thug nearest him spun with such speed that Dick didn't see the punch coming before it knocked him sideways with surprising force. He'd had worse, but it still sent him reeling. Tim twitched.

"I would have thought the big man taught you to only speak when spoken to," Roman remarked without apparent interest, watching as Dick righted himself with a jolt, glaring. "But then he never did quite what anyone expected."

"What do you want, Sionis?" Tim snapped, a tight feeling in his chest. Jason had said that he was certain Black Mask was dead – something about throwing him out of a window – but evidently he'd been wrong. Or he'd been right, and someone was still using a Lazarus pit; that would be a whole new problem.

Roman laughed, an awful scraping sound. "I want a great many things. First and foremost right now though, is _answers._ "

Tim and Dick shared a swift look, features tense. This didn't look as though it was going to be the usual knock around Dick had experienced thus far and while neither of them was any stranger to pain, Black Mask could be creative when he wanted to be, and neither of them much looked forwards to seeing what he could come up with when pressed.

"Do you have a specific question in mind?" Dick asked, earning himself another strike. He spat blood onto the concrete beside him with consummate ease.

"I wouldn't waste your fists," Roman cautioned his man, his sharp eyes flicking to Robin instead. "If you want to make him hurt, hit that one."

The thug followed his gaze, letting Tim see his dark smile for just a moment before there was a fist snapping his head to the side. Any progress he had made towards reorienting his thoughts was instantly lost in the brief flash of pain. Asshole.

Tim fixed his glare on Sionis. "Whatever answers you're looking for, you're not going to get them out of us."

"Oh, but I _will._ You just don't see it yet. You aren't going to give me the answers, you _are_ the question."

"Is it just me, or are the criminals in this city making less sense every day?" Dick asked in Tim's general direction, his glare faltering under his confused expression. He had this look on his face that clearly indicated the feeling of 'what the hell is my life' – Tim could sympathise.

The thug nearest Tim struck him again in retaliation, but Sionis continued as if nothing had happened. "You see, a man like me has connections - people who feed me funds or information, and someone who's been in the business as long as I have knows who to go to when they want a certain question answered. A few months ago, I had the same question as everyone else: Who killed the Bat?"

Every muscle in Tim's body went tense. It was the same thing that the entire Bat-family had been asking themselves and in the last six months, not one of them had gotten any closer to finding the answer. It wasn't through lack of trying – they might not say it in quite so many words, but Dick, Jason and Tim all wanted their own kind of revenge. Barb was a little too good hearted for something so selfish, but she would do absolutely everything she could to find the son of a bitch and bring him to justice. Just like Bats would have wanted.

"But, like everyone else, I couldn't find a whisper. There were rumours of course, but nothing I chased down was solid. The strongest theory pointed to that Knight but he's seemingly vanished and in his place we have a strikingly similar, brand-new Bat-freak."

"Is this going somewhere?" Dick cut in, doing his best to look bored. "Because if it isn't, I have somewhere I'd rather be."

Tim watched the punch coming with a certain sense of resignation. His head was really starting to spin, and he hadn't a chance of regaining the reflexes to dodge out of the way. He felt one of his molars come loose with the blow and he poked at it with his tongue to try and force it back into place. He hated going to the dentist and Alfred refused to manage that area of healthcare – that thought ended right there. He couldn't let himself remember that the butler who had been as much a father as Bruce had was gone too.

Dick was watching him carefully when he straightened himself out again, the grin slipping from his features when he took in how disorientated Tim really was. Taking blows was something they had been forced to get used to, but that didn't really help when you were watching assholes beating up your little brother.

"I don't know what you want us to say," Tim said, ignoring the slight slur in his voice and hoping that Dick would hear the reassurance he was trying to offer, "If we knew who had killed him, don't you think we would have done something about it?" To Tim's surprise and happiness, no one lashed out at Nightwing when he spoke.

Sionis smiled down at him in a way that sent shivers up Tim's spine. "I'm sure you would have hunted them down in a heartbeat. Just as I'm also sure that if the Bat _had_ been killed, someone would have come forwards to claim the glory that goes with that kind of victory. And yet, all I hear is whispers. Strange, don't you think?"

"Maybe whoever it was knows how much attention would come down on them if they came forwards," Tim pointed out, not liking where this was going. "Not just from us, too; the whole world saw what happened. Besides, I'm sure there are plenty of people on your side of the field who would love to brag about taking out the man who took down the Batman, aren't there?"

"Anyone who can take out the Bat isn't going to be afraid of his runts," Black Mask retaliated, turning his nose up at the pair of them. Dick flexed his fists but said nothing, half an eye still on Tim.

"What are you getting at Sionis?"

"What I'm getting at, Bird-boy, is that not one person can point to the person who killed the Bat. And so I thought, why might that be? The only answer I can find is that _no one did."_

There was a long beat of silence as the two of them took that in, before Tim felt an honest-to-god chuckle crawl its way up his throat and out into the air. Dick looked as though he was caught between laughing and finding the words to express how ridiculous that was.

Tim saved him from having to decide by answering for both of them. "You think that Batman is still alive? Did you not see what happened?" The video of it flickered through his mind for the briefest of moments, and he winced at the reminder.

"The Batman I knew had been in plenty of explosions, and none of them seemed to do anything more than piss him off. I have no doubt he could have survived this one. Why then, would he not have come forwards to announce his survival? Why let the world think he was dead?"

"You're crazier than I thought," Tim told him harshly. He knew that he should be blocking Sionis out, but he couldn't help the way the words impacted with his chest, their meaning aching in a way he'd tried to pretend wasn't familiar. Because he'd had the exact same thoughts, had reasoned with himself all the ways that Bruce could have escaped from that explosion, and had still come up empty. A part of him was sure that the explosion couldn't have killed the man he knew, and yet he couldn't reconcile with the idea that Bruce was out there in the world somewhere, letting his sons believe that he was dead. If he had wanted to walk away from the cowl – and Tim knew that it wouldn't be the first time that desire reared its head – it would have been the perfect opportunity to do it, but he would surely have let Tim and Dick know that it was his decision. He wouldn't have abandoned them like this.

"You don't have to believe me," Sionis continued, uncaring of the destruction he was leaving in Tim's mind. "I know that Batman faked his death and I'm going to use you to prove me right. If he is alive, he's not going to sit idly by while his friends suffer."

They both had about five seconds to let that sink in before the thugs piled on them, forcing a bag over each of their heads and throwing them into darkness. Tim felt someone tugging at the chain around his ankle – he kicked out, felt his foot connect with something solid and-

* * *

When he came to both the bag and the chain were gone, and he was tied to a metal chair. From the way his shoulders were aching, he'd been in the same position for some time. Beside him, Dick was struggling to shake off the same unconsciousness, with slightly less success than Tim had managed.

"Nightwing? Come on, open your eyes," he called softly. He wanted to call his name – it was usually more effective – but he had no way of knowing if they were being listened to. He couldn't see anyone in the room but that didn't mean that there weren't cameras or microphones.

Dick stirred vaguely, his head tilting in Tim's direction. "Wha…"

"Come on. Rise and shine. There's a whole lot of awful going on right now and I could use a hand dealing with it." As he spoke, he twisted his wrists futilely, only confirming that the cuffs around his wrists weren't likely to budge without some force.

He could see the exact moment that Dick came awake enough to know that he was tied down. His hands curled into fists as every muscle tightened up in surprise, even while he forced his breathing to stay calm and level. Tim recognised it from his own training.

"It's alright," he said, then grimaced at nothing. "Well, no, it isn't, but it's not really worse than it was before."

Dick cracked his eyes open to peer blearily at him. "Could you make more sense please? My head is pounding."

"I know the feeling," Tim said in sympathy. They were both well acquainted with concussion, and Tim's head still felt like it was cracked open from the first time he'd been knocked out – his life was seriously messed up. "But I need you to wake up now, okay? Sionis has us, remember? Said some nonsense about pulling Batman out of hiding."

"Bats isn't in hiding," Dick slurred back, brow crumpling in confusion. They must have hit him harder than Tim had thought.

"I know that."

It seemed to catch up to Dick then, the memory of everything that had happened. The confusion bled away to leave that profound sadness that always seemed to hurt more simply because it was on _Dick's_ face, when he was normally so untouchable. "Oh," he said quietly, and Tim felt his heart breaking all over again.

"I need you to wake up Nightwing," Tim said, wishing his voice didn't sound so small. "We're really in trouble here and I don't think anyone's coming to pull us out the fire."

"You're wrong about that," said a deep voice from behind them, and Tim felt his chest hollow out.

"Sionis," he greeted, as though he wasn't worried. He twisted his aching head around as far as he could to smile at him. "I was wondering when you'd be back."

Roman ignored him entirely, striding into the room to stand in front of them with a dark look in his eyes. "Batman will come to save you and when he does…" He trailed off with a maniacal grin curving up the edge of his mouth.

"You know, it's touching that you think he cares enough about us to rise up out of his grave to save us, but I'm pretty sure that's not about to happen. You see-" A vicious backhand cut off the end of Tim's sentence, and he felt blood pool in his mouth from where his tongue had caught on his teeth. Foolish mistake – he should have moved it out the way.

"You will be silent, _boy_ , or I will cut out your tongue. Though, I might do that anyway. We'll have to see how long it takes Batman to come forwards; if it takes longer than I want then I'll have to get creative. For now though, you might as well remain whole even if it is a little _broken_." With that, he waved an imperious hand towards the door behind them that elicited the sounds of several people moving about before striding archly from the room.

Tim tried to twist himself around to see what was happening but the angle was too severe. Desperate, he turned to his brother. " _Nightwing,_ " he hissed with more urgency than before. "Wake the hell up!"

Dick jolted at his voice, managing to get his eyes open again to blink in confusion. He caught sight of Tim, read the desperation on his face and called in that will of iron that Bruce had beaten into him. The concussion was brutal, and its dark tendrils were still wrapped tightly around his brain but right now he needed to be _here,_ if only so that Tim knew he wasn't alone. "I'm awake," he murmured softly.

"Black Mask paid a visit. I think this little vacation is about to get more unpleasant."

The words were barely out of his mouth before there was a man coming to stand in front of them with a tripod in one hand and a video camera in the other. Every inch of Tim turned to ice.

"Is it just me," Dick said, evidently working hard for his usual blasé tone, "Or does this seem dreadfully familiar?"

"I never much liked the ending to this particular story," Tim agreed, trying not to hide away inside his own head. The last time a Robin had been tied down in front of a camera like this, he'd died, been remade into something black with hate and helped bring about Batman's death. It was as awful a tale as any Tim had ever heard, and definitely not something any of them could afford to repeat.

Both of them were distracted from the camera for a moment then as two hulking men stepped out of the shadows to stand beside them like sentinels. Dick and Tim shared a look that could only be described as hopeless. Neither of them were close to working themselves free and without that they couldn't even begin to formulate a plan – there wasn't a miracle that was going to stop this from happening.

The man with the tripod finished setting it up, a red light flickering on apparently the signal to begin because as soon as Tim saw it, his head was snapping sideways from a left hook he never even saw coming. He was just about able to hear Nightwing growl in fury before his skull ripped itself open again and everything was lost to the noise. He was aware of more blows raining down on his body, aches and pains growing into full blown agony that pulsed with every beat of his frantic heart, but he couldn't do anything but ride it out, waiting for the end.

Bruce had spent months at the beginning teaching Tim how to meditate properly. It was one of their greatest weapons, he'd said, a place where they could retreat to so that nothing could hurt them and they could remain until help came. This time help wasn't coming, but he tried to remember his lessons nonetheless, despairing when his skull was fractured into so many shards of agony that he couldn't find his way to that little knot of calm. There was no escape.

Eventually, the blows came to an end. Tim's head hung limply from his shoulders, the only thing stopping him from tumbling to the floor the ropes that bound him. He was fairly sure that Black Mask was speaking, but he couldn't hear the words and he didn't care enough to try and listen. Half-awake, he drifted.

He woke several hours later to someone calling for him. He blinked slowly, very much aware that the second he moved his head his neck was going to punish him for leaving it in such an awkward position for so long.

"Robin, are you awake?" That sounded a lot like Dick. He should probably reply, but he was in so much _pain_ and- " _Robin,_ " the voice hissed again.

Swallowing down the cry of pain that wanted to escape him, he tilted his head towards the voice and only just managed to stop himself from saying 'Dick.' "Nightwing?" His voice was slurred, badly, but there was a sign of relief from somewhere nearby that must have meant he was understood.

"Thank god. Please don't scare me like that." Now that he was paying attention, Tim realised that Dick was slurring slightly too. What a pair they made. The one upside was that Dick sounded marginally more in control of his faculties than Tim currently was – small mercies and all that.

"Need plan," Tim murmured indistinctly.

"I know. I still can't do anything about these cuffs and even if I could, neither of us are up to a fight right now. I hate to say it but I think we need help."

"Who's going to help us?"

There was a minute of silence as they both considered. "Catwoman?" Dick offered eventually, sounding less than hopeful.

"Unlikely."

"She was close with Bats by the end. Maybe she'd do it as a favour to him."

"Might not know we're here," Tim pointed out, wishing that his head would straighten out so that he could follow this conversation more clearly. It was taking far too much effort just to understand what Dick was saying and each time he spoke it felt like someone was rasping a metal file across the edge of his eye sockets.

"Probably not. But Oracle will. She'll be able to get someone on our side, even if she has to drag in someone from out of town."

Tim had almost forgotten about Barbara. The one blessing in this whole situation was that she wasn't here, couldn't see what was being done to them. She was safe and that was all that really mattered.

"Are you okay?" Tim asked instead of voicing that thought.

"Bruised. I think my arm's broken. Nothing I've not had to deal with before. What do you say we take a few days off when we get out of here?"

"You wouldn't be able to sit still for ten minutes."

"That is untrue."

"S'not."

"That's a brilliant defence, well done."

"Shut up," Tim huffed, but he was smiling ever so slightly. Sleep dragged heavy on his limbs, but he did his best to fight it off – he wanted to be there for Dick.

Nightwing seemed to sense his distress, because he sighed very quietly. "If you can sleep, I'd suggest you do so. If help is coming, it won't be any time soon and I get the feeling we're going to need whatever strength we have."

* * *

It was, in fact, five full days before help came. Every few hours or so, some of Black Mask's goons would show up and pound them into bloody pulps until neither of them had the strength to even look at each other, much less hold a coherent conversation.

Surprisingly, despite a whole multitude of broken bones and black bruises, neither of them were in terrible shape. Tim wasn't confident that either of them could stand up unassisted, but for all the threats Black Mask made, he hadn't stepped up his game from the beatings. It became a little more clear as to _why_ that might be on the fifth day, when one of the punches slammed up into Tim's rib cage and sent one of his traitorous, battered sticks of bone straight through a lung.

He choked instantly, all the air in his body leaving him in a wet rush as hot, sticky blood welled at the back of his throat. Pain like he'd never felt before was right there to meet him, slamming into him with a force that would have taken his breath away if he had any left to give; as it was, all he could do was silently scream in agony. It was death, and he knew it.

In keeping with their gloriously bad luck, it was only _after_ that when the door crashed open and both of Black Mask's men hit the floor with bullets in their heads. A third bullet whipped through the suddenly still air to take out the camera.

Tim was completely lost to the world, so it was a blessing that Dick was having one of his better days. Everything hurt in ways he didn't have words for, but his head was in enough of one piece to sort of follow what was going on: namely, his brother was choking to death on his own blood and it looked like someone was finally here to help. He didn't have the range of movement to twist around to try and see who it was, but he didn't have to because in the next second their savour was in front of him.

Despite everything that was far more important in that heartbeat of space, Dick couldn't stop himself from gasping out, "Jason?"

Red Hood looked between the two of them, quickly analysing Tim's condition before drawing a lock pick out to work his way through Dick's bonds. Nightwing was still staring at him in stunned confusion, and he barely even noticed when his first arm was freed. He _did_ notice when his left – the one that had been broken early on – was released, and he was only just able to hold in a cry of pain as the bone was jostled.

Jason twitched. "Can you stand?"

Now that Dick knew what to listen for, even through the synthesiser the voice of his once-dead brother was obvious. He shook off the tingle of old memories and managed to wheeze out, "Yes. Help him."

Jason moved without hesitation, leaving Dick to work out if he could actually stand up or not. His first guess would have been an overwhelming ' _no_ ,' but Dick was nothing if not persistent and he wouldn't allow himself be a deadweight when Tim needed help.

"We need to move, quickly," Jason informed him over his shoulder as he worked on Tim's bonds. "I can cover you both if you help get this one moving."

' _We're not up to moving quickly,'_ Dick thought instantly. "Of course," was what he said aloud in the same breath, creaking the words out with what was left of his voice.

He'd managed to lever himself onto his feet and had locked his knees to stay there, but moving would be a whole different challenge. Jason glanced over and took in his swaying, barely stable stance.

"We don't have a choice. If you can't move him, leave him."

Anyone that hadn't been trained by Batman wouldn't have noticed, but Jason flinched half a second before Dick was able to chastise him with a fierce, " _Never!_ " Self-reprimand perhaps? Jason had never seemed the type.

Prioritising quickly, Dick chose to ignore it for now; they had much bigger problems. Tim's hands finally swung free, and he would have tumbled to the ground if Nightwing hadn't half-dived, half-fallen to catch him. The blood from Tim's mouth dripped down onto Dick's shoulder.

Jason was already up and by the door with a pistol in each hand, glancing down the corridor warily. He was rigid with stress, and when Dick actually thought about he realised that it was quite impressive he was taking it as well as he seemed to be – this had to bring back all kinds of memories.

That sympathy was cut a little short when Jason turned to look at them with a snapped, "If you want to get out of here, get moving."

"He can't breathe, Hood, and I can barely walk," Dick defended, but he hauled Tim's arm over his shoulder as he spoke, putting himself opposite the broken rib. Any further pressure against it could do further – lethal – damage and it wasn't a risk they could take.

"Look, we need to get moving or-" He stopped then, one hand twitching up as though to press on an earpiece that wasn't there. So it wasn't self-reprimand – someone was talking to him. Barbara? "You can see what I see," Hood was muttering into the comm., "They're both going to be fine but we need to move- Yes, I know that but this wasn't the plan- Just let me do my job, alright? I'll get them out of here."

Dick watched the one sided exchange with growing confusion. It didn't seem like something Jason would say to Barbara. He could have asked about it, but trying to keep both himself and Tim upright was taking up most of his concentration, especially when Hood slipped out the door and started striding down the corridor as though they could possibly keep up. Besides, he really didn't want to piss him off when he was their only chance.

Walking the both of them out of that cell was one of the hardest things Dick had ever done. Every step was agonising, made worse by the way he could literally feel the life seeping out of his brother with every breath that failed to pull in air. With each jolting, uneven lurch Dick was sure that he'd send them both to the ground, or his legs would give out, or his one working arm would fail him and drop Tim – it felt like every passing second would be their last.

It was a blessing then, that Bruce had been so ardent a teacher to his first son. Whenever, as a child, Dick had wanted to give up, had felt too tired or hurt or heartbroken to go on, had thought _'I can't,'_ Bruce had been there like a pillar of stone, unyielding and absolute. He had simply said, _'you can,'_ and like the gods of old, his words had made it so. The eleven year old he had been had resented him for it and the adult he had become had never found the courage to apologise. He understood now. Bruce had been saving his life, a hundred times over, and he never even thanked him for it.

' _You can,'_ Dick told himself sternly, caught another breath, and forced himself forwards.

For all his impatient muttering, Jason did stop periodically to let them catch up but even then the pace he set was brutal. The only evidence that Tim wasn't entirely lost to them was the small amount of his own weight he was managing to hold but with each step that grew less and less, making Dick's job that much harder. Every bone in Dick's body was in pain – most notably the arm he'd awkwardly tucked around his brother's waist to stop the break from being moved too badly – and even with his fierce willpower, he knew that he wasn't going to be one his feet for much longer. He managed to gasp as much out to Jason.

"We're almost there," was the curt reply. "There's an elevator this way, and extraction is waiting on the roof."

"Extraction? Who?"

The question was ignored, but Dick had to assume that it was the person on the other end of the comm. link Hood was using. An ally? They were always running low on them.

The elevator glowed like salvation when it came into view. Dick could feel his knees starting to buckle under the strain and Tim had ceased to take any of his own weight, his chin painted red with his own blood.

Jason took out the last of the men – somehow without Dick noticing he'd left quite the body count behind them but right then, Dick couldn't bring himself to care – and ushered them into the small, mirrored space without a word. As soon as they were inside, Dick let himself collapse.

"Christ," Jason cursed softly, stumbling to avoid standing on either of them. The doors slid closed. "A little warning might have been nice."

Dick didn't have the energy to try and reply to that, so settled for flapping his hand in Tim's direction, a wordless ' _check on him_.' With a sigh of mild annoyance, Jason did so.

Tim was bone pale under the bright lights of the elevator, making the red of his costume and blood stand up more sharply than they needed to. He looked half dead already. It was something of a miracle that he was still breathing, but from the wet, rasping sound of his chest, it wasn't a state he would remain in for long without help.

"There's air leaking into his thorax," Jason informed Dick as dispassionately as he could. He still wasn't sure where he stood in relation to Tim. "We need to relieve the pressure or he's not going to be able to breathe."

"How?"

"You don't happen to have a long needle on you, do you?" Even as he spoke he was reaching for the knife strapped to his leg. It was imperfect, but it was all they had.

He tried to keep the cut as small as he could, but the knife was designed to hurt people, not to make surgical incisions and if there had been any other choice, they would have taken it. The wound the knife made was an ugly, vicious thing.

Despite the crudeness of the treatment, the effect was instant: Tim sucked in a sharp, sudden breath as though he'd been drowning and had just reached the surface once more, eyes flickering for a brief moment as though he might stir, but then sliding closed again to remain still.

Dick reached out a shaking hand to lay it on the uninjured side of Tim's chest, too exhausted to do anything more. He wanted to apologise to Jason because he knew that he was finished and it wasn't fair of him to leave Hood here alone to do all the work, but he didn't have the strength left in him to even do that. Exhausted, he let himself pass out.

* * *

He came to with the sound of cursing and a vaguely weightless feeling in his bones that meant they were at altitude. The sight that greeted him was the cockpit of a small aerial vehicle – not dissimilar to what the inside of the batwing had used to look like – and Tim stretched out beside him, white as a sheet. For a wild, agonising moment, Dick thought he wasn't breathing.

"He's alive," a voice told him, "Calm down."

Feeling like he was moving through honey, Dick turned towards the sound. "Jason?"

"They really did a number on you, didn't they? All you've really said is my name." Dick didn't have a clever response to that so he stayed silent, looking down at Tim and pretending that he didn't feel completely hollowed out with pain. The silence seemed to trouble Jason, who turned away from the controls to look at him properly. "Are you alright?"

He dodged that question with one of his own. "Are you taking us to a hospital?"

"No."

That was enough to get a rise out of him, even if it was nothing more than a sharp tone. "Tim _needs_ a hospital, Jason. He'll die without help."

"He'll get help."

"I don't mean Bruce's go-to of stitches and whiskey. He needs surgery!"

"If we go to a hospital now, Black Mask's men will track us all down and kill us. It's too big of a risk."

"So to save your own skin you're going to let him die," Dick snarled, fatigue only just dulling his fury. He was hurt and exhausted and the only thing left in him was the all-consuming desire to keep his little brother safe, regardless of what stood in his way. Rage like he'd never felt coiled up in his gut and if he had been in one piece and it had been anyone else, he would have let it out through his fists. "Well, you do that. Just drop us off with the nearest doctors, thanks."

Jason turned back to the flight controls, back rigid. "So that's what you think of me. Nice to know. I'm not taking you to a hospital. I know some people who can patch you both up. People we can trust." His voice was casual and light, but even with the helmet still on, it was clear just how much emotion was buried there and how badly Dick had managed to hurt him without even trying to.

"People you can trust with Tim's life?" He had to be sure.

"People I trust with _my_ life. You seem to think that's all that matters to me, so maybe that will convince you."

"That's not what I-" he started, then cut himself off. This was useless. The damage was done, and Jason wasn't about to forgive him just because he'd said the words in anger.

Dick let his body slump back to surface he was lying on, keeping his hand stretched out to touch Tim's arm and curling his broken limb carefully around his ribs. Without the rage there to fill him up he felt like a deflated balloon, sinking into the cracks beneath him as though they might swallow him up for good. He was half tempted to let them.

He had a distant awareness that something fairly important was wrong with him; things weren't processing in the right way – he couldn't remember much between Jason arriving and ending up here, and yet he was sure that something dramatic must have been going on. He'd heard gunshots. Seen bodies. And yet, in his memory there was nothing.

Everything hurt. He let the pain have him.

* * *

When he next woke up, he felt considerably better. It was the kind of better that could only come about with the really good pain medication that Bruce never let them have, and for once he let himself revel in the blissful feeling of nothingness. He had approximately a minute of that before his mind joined the rest of him in being awake, and all the memories came pouring into the cracks.

Black Mask. Jason. _Tim._

He tried to push himself upright and got tangled with the cast around his broken arm – a proper cast too, not just a brace mocked up from whatever was lying around the batcave. He could get used to this kind of treatment.

Cursing, he wriggled about until his feet gained purchase on the mattress and he could push himself into a sitting position, his eyes landing almost instantly on the figure in the next bed.

Tim looked a hundred times better than he had before and someone had taken the time to clean him up properly so that any hint of their captivity was restricted to the bruising marking his skin. It was the steady beating of a heart monitor that really let Dick relax, the frantic tension leaking out of him with the same rush that it had appeared.

He was distantly aware that Tim's uniform was gone, replaced by pristine white scrubs which meant that it was perfectly possible Robin's identity was no longer secure. The same was true for himself. Under any normal circumstances it would be enough to send him into another full blown panic attack but to be perfectly honest, he was just too happy that Tim was alive to really care about anything else. All that could come later.

Besides, Bruce's identity coming out had been a big enough blow on that front that they would likely be facing this possibility sometime soon anyway. You wouldn't have thought it would take people any time at all to work out the coincidence of Batman having three adopted sons at the same times as there had been three different Robins – oddly, no one seemed to have picked up on that yet, but they had been holding their breath for the moment that someone did.

Dick forced it all out of his mind, and focused on Tim's steady breathing. For so long, he'd been worried that he'd never be able to listen to that sound again. The reverie was broken by the gentle creak of the door being pushed open, and Dick was forced to turn to look – another lesson Bruce had given him: always know who's in the room.

Jason stood in the doorway. He'd abandoned his costume, dressing instead in a worn, plain t-shirt with non-descript jogging bottoms – it was so perfectly domestic that Dick's heart tore itself in two all over again at the reminder of what they'd lost.

"Hey," he said after a long beat of uncomfortable silence. Dick had never liked a quiet room. "I guess I should be thanking you right about now, huh?"

No one else would have noticed the way Jason's expression loosened slightly, as though a weight had just lifted from his shoulders. "Pretty much, yeah."

"Well, thank you. Seriously. It was looking pretty bleak there and you got us both out. _Thank you._ " It was as heartfelt as Dick ever let himself get, but he meant every word. Jason had saved Tim – he'd have kissed the guy if he could reach.

"You shouldn't have got caught in the first place," Jason pointed out without emotion. "I saw the whole thing on a surveillance tape – leaving your back open like that was sloppy."

"Yeah," Dick agreed simply. It had been, there was no denying it.

Jason realised that he wasn't going to get the argument he was apparently looking for, so he shrugged. "I was sent to see if you were awake. I'll pass along the message."

He turned to leave sharply, his movements military even when he wasn't on the job but he was stopped by Dick calling after him. "Sent by who, Jason? Where are we?"

It looked like he wasn't going to answer him for a minute, that annoyingly smug look on his face that he'd had ever since he was ten and for the first time knew something that Dick didn't – it had pissed Dick off then too. Apparently a decade hadn't been enough to lessen the effect. "We're in the middle of nowhere," he said eventually. "As for who sent me, you'll see for yourself soon enough."

With that he was gone, because Jason had always loved any opportunity available to him to be a dramatic little git.

Something important was bubbling in Dick's chest, something that wasn't going to be stopped no matter how much he didn't want to acknowledge it. Because there had been something in Jason's eyes that he'd recognised, a look that he only knew from the way it had been absent from the faces of his friends for so long now, and even before he had the evidence before him, Dick knew. He _knew._

It didn't help.

The door creaked open again a few moments later, and Dick had to physically force himself to open his eyes so that he could look upon the man who had abandoned him. Bruce stared back, his expression blank.

"Black Mask was right," was all Dick could think to say. The words hung in the air like glass for an unending moment, then shattered as everything in Dick exploded outwards all at once.

He was on his feet without knowing how he'd done it, the IV lines tearing themselves free with a pain that he didn't let himself feel as he hurled himself at the man who had been his father. It wasn't until his hands formed fists that he realised it was rage holding him steady when his body should be shaking him apart.

The first punch was as much a surprise to Dick as anyone, but it was solid with the weight of emotion behind it, and Bruce stumbled back with a low grunt. Dick lashed out again and again, getting in another two firm blows before Bruce managed to catch up with what was happening and remembered how to block. He didn't dodge, Dick noticed distantly, as though trying to spare Dick the pain that would surely come from the overexertion of a missed strike, and not once did he try to utilise any of the multitude of openings Dick was leaving – this was all rage, there was no room for finesse or style.

An uncertain amount of time later – perhaps seconds, perhaps hours, Dick didn't care – someone managed to get an arm around his waist and hauled him backwards firmly, somehow not hurting him even as he did so.

"Dick, what the _fuck-"_ Jason was saying, apparently the one who had hold of him.

It was only at that point that Dick realised he was shouting, words he hadn't even realised were in him pouring out of his mouth like venom; he snapped his mouth closed sharply enough to hurt. This loss of control was juvenile, something he would scorn if he saw it in anyone else, but he wasn't in the one in the driving seat any more. Something dark and black and ugly had slipped into where Dick was supposed to be, and it was using every aching part of him to hurt.

"Jason, it's okay," Bruce said quietly into the suddenly empty air. "Let him go, it's fine."

"No, it's not," Jason said firmly, clearly well beyond taking orders from Bruce anymore. "Especially if you're not even going to fight back."

"Why?" Dick suddenly put in, ignoring whatever conversation was going on around him. He wasn't sure if the other two would have listened to him at all if it hadn't been for the bleeding, wounded slant in his voice that spoke of fierce pain. " _Why_?"

Bruce had enough respect for him not to pretend to misunderstand. "I was trying to keep you all safe."

"You picked us up when we were children and made us soldiers," Dick argued instantly, brushing away his excuse. "Safety never had anything to do with it."

"Dick, I promise-"

"I don't care what you promise," he cut in, sharp and hurt and wounded, wanting to injure him as he was injured and just unable to see how toxic that was. Nothing made sense to him. "I don't care that you wanted the world to think you were dead. I really don't. But I'm never, _ever_ going to forgive you for letting us think it too."

He tried to push Jason away from him, but injured as he was he didn't have the strength to force him to go anywhere he didn't want to go and apparently he was set on staying close. Bruce's face had slipped out of the expressionless mask, closing into something older and weaker.

"I never meant for this Dick."

"I had to watch Babs cry at your funeral, you know that right? _Tim_ had to watch her cry. Do you even care about that? Do you even know the kind of pain you caused them?"

"Of course I care," Bruce defended, showing real, deep emotion for the first time. He made an aborted move towards Dick, thinking better of it at the last moment and retreating again. "I never wanted to hurt any of you."

"Then why didn't you tell us? We wouldn't have ratted you out. Or didn't you trust us?"

A flicker of pain darted across Bruce's face. "Of course I trust you. With my life."

"But not with your death?"

" _No_ , Dick, listen to me-"

"So you can try to lie your way out of this? Bruce, you have been alive this whole time while we all tried to work out what to do in a world without you in it. I don't just mean Tim and Babs. Lucius? And Gordon? You remember them? Everyone just fell apart without you there and you just sat back and let it happen."

"Dick, _please,_ just listen to me." It must have been the genuine pleading note in his voice that pulled Dick up short, and not the way that Bruce looked as though no one in the world could have hurt him as much as Dick was doing right then. "I should have told you. I wanted to, _god,_ I wanted-" He cut himself off, taking his cue from the ire rising on Dick's face. "Immediately after my 'death,' I had to get myself as far away from Gotham as I could. I knew people were looking for me. I thought that if I reached out to you then someone would notice. It would have drawn me out of hiding but worse than that, it would have put all of you at increased risk."

"In case someone came after us for information about you," Dick said, understanding. He sent a loaded look in the direction of Tim's bed where he slept on, oblivious, then looked down at his cast. When he looked back at Bruce, his expression was dark. "How's that working out for you?"

Bruce physically flinched at that, his own gaze lingering on Tim's bed for a long moment. "I had no idea that Black Mask would stoop to this. I didn't realise he was even one of the people looking for me – this was… I should never have let this happen."

"No, you shouldn't," Dick agreed, unforgiving. He was still shaking with rage, though he could feel the burst of adrenaline waning and if he didn't sit down again soon, Jason was going to have to catch him. Speaking of… "What's Jason got to do with any of this?"

Bruce's eyes dropped away from Tim to focus back on the two of them. "After… everything," he said, hesitating, "I offered to help him." It was clear that he didn't want to elaborate further on that, but Dick got the hint – Jason no doubt had a multitude of issues he needed to get out of his system.

"I can act as his agent now that Batman can't appear in public," Jason put in, unwilling to be talked about when he was standing right there. "Like infiltrating Black Mask's base to pull the both of you out the fire."

"If Jason hadn't been here," Dick said softly, his mind falling down a whole new train of thought, "Would you have come for us? Tell me Bruce, honestly. What's more important to you? Your 'death'? Or our lives?"

Bruce took a step back from them both, the grief on his face dropping back behind a mask that only served to show Dick how deeply his feelings were running. "I chose to let the world believe I was dead so that you would be safe. I knew that I didn't need to worry about Robin and Nightwing – they've been taking care of themselves for years and I've already taught them everything I know. But as soon as the world knew about Bruce Wayne, it put Dick Grayson and Tim Drake at risk too. To a criminal you would have been an expendable way of getting to me. Dying was the only way that they wouldn't come after you."

"You didn't answer my question." Dick couldn't let himself feel, couldn't let the emotions flowing through him overtake his rage. It was the only thing keeping him going.

"I don't know what I would have done," Bruce admitted when the silence stretched. "But no matter what, I would not have left you there, I promise you. If Batman had to return to save you then he would have done, I'm certain."

Dick eyed him considering. Even with that mask of his, he'd always been able to read Bruce when it mattered. "I believe you," he said eventually. "But that doesn't change anything."

"I know. I never expected you to forgive me."

That was good, because Dick had no intention to. Maybe in time, when he wasn't aching all over and felt like he'd just been punched in the brain, but not yet. Right now, he needed to be angry. Sighing, he hobbled carefully back to his bed and slumped onto it; neither of the others were stupid enough to offer to help him. They didn't leave though, which was something.

Bruce crossed to Tim's side without seemingly meaning to do so, his eyes catching on the multitude of bruises visible above his scrubs. Dick supposed he probably looked no better. Now that the adrenaline was leaking out of him, even the morphine running through his system wasn't completely blanking out the pain he could feel radiating through him – thank god for painkillers. He had no doubt that he'd be in near agony if it weren't for the drugs.

Jason, muttering under his breath, picked up the end of the trailing IV, abandoned when Dick had torn himself out of bed. "You know," he said idly, "I'm no doctor but I'm pretty sure this is supposed to stay in." Even as he spoke he was disposing of the needle tip and retrieving a replacement from the drawers beside Dick's bed. He didn't protest when Jason snatched his hand up to reinsert it.

"Not sure I like you sticking needles in me," Dick muttered back, looking for a rise more than anything. He still felt sharp edged, jostling for a fight he knew neither of them would give him when he was in this state.

"Deal with it Grayson."

Even after everything this day had thrown at him, the use of his last name seemed to be the thing to catch him off-guard. It was stupid really, a throwaway comment, and yet it was exactly the kind of thing Jason had used to say to him when he was still a small, pre-pubescent boy who idolised Dick for what he could do while at the same time hating him for who he was. Dick's breath caught in his throat. God, he was so not qualified to deal with this. Why wasn't Tim waking the hell up so that someone else could be just as blown away as he was?

"Dick?" Jason said after a moment, his voice uncharacteristically concerned, and it was only a few seconds after that when he realised he wasn't breathing. Bruce had half risen from where he was perched beside Tim's bed, looking at him with open worry. Dick didn't want to know how bad he looked if that was how Batman was looking at him.

"I'm okay," he said, in the kind of voice that made it blatantly clear he was not okay. He swallowed, mentally kicked himself, and tried again. "Really. It's been a long day, is all." Well, it was better, but from the look Jason and Bruce shared he hadn't convinced them.

Suddenly, and with surprising depth, he hated the both of them. Who were they to hide out here, sharing knowing looks, when back in Gotham Dick's whole family had been grieving for Bruce? Hell, Dick had spoken to Jason multiple times since Bruce's death, even if it hadn't been in person and he still hadn't said a goddamn word. They could both go to hell.

Bruce seemed to read the sentiment on his face, because he rose to his feet uneasily and grimaced. "I'll leave you to get some rest. You're safe here."

That was apparently all the goodbye he was capable of, because he turned to the door without another word. A final question occurred to Dick, and he called out before Bruce could completely disappear out the door. "What happened to Alfred?"

Bruce paused, looking back at him. "He's here. I can send him to you, if you want to see him."

"Do. What does he think about all of this?"

Bruce turned away from him again before he spoke, the words drifting over his shoulder in a parting gift. "He hasn't spoken to me since he found out I hadn't told you."

Jason was left standing awkwardly beside Dick's bed, looking like a puzzle piece without a slot to fit into. The brand on his cheek glowed red in the bright lights as though it were still ablaze. "For what it's worth, he wanted to tell you," he said at length, just when Dick was starting to think he'd frozen solid. "He'd convinced himself that it was better if he didn't but it hurt him not to."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"No. But you should know nonetheless."

Dick looked at him, considering. There was so much that he wanted to say and yet he couldn't seem to find any words. He had mourned for Jason when he thought he was dead, had mourned a second time when he learned the truth of everything he had been through. What did you say in the face of so much pain?

"What do you think of it all? Did you think he should have told us?"

Jason flinched, eyes darting around the room before resettling on Dick. "I'm not in a position to dictate what he should do. There's still a large part of me that… It's like…" He huffed, annoyed at himself when the words wouldn't come. "There are two parts of me. Sort of. It's hard to explain. There's the person I was before, who knows that keeping the truth from you was cruel. But then, that person also understands why Bruce did it and having seen it from his side… I don't know what he should have done. I'm not taking either side here."

"You didn't tell us when you could have done."

"I promised him that I wouldn't. My word still means something to me even if not much else does."

Dick chose to ignore that little delightful piece of information. "What does the other you think? The other part."

Jason's eyes were bleak but his voice was totally level when he announced, "The man that the Joker made still wants to see the lot of you dead. He's not taking a side either."

A chill ran down Dick's spine. "Alright then."

Aware that he'd said something he perhaps shouldn't have done, Jason ducked his head and headed for the exit – a retreat if ever Dick saw one. The room was quiet in their absence, the only noise Tim's soft heart monitor and the steady sound of his breathing.

Alone was good, Dick supposed. It meant that he had the space he needed to wrap his head around all this information so that he could decide what he wanted to do with it all. Tim was obviously going to find out as soon as he woke up, and there would be no doubt between them that they had to tell Barbara as soon as they were able to contact her securely. She'd probably argue for telling her father as well, and Dick wasn't going to fight her on that. Outside of that, there wasn't anyone who Dick felt he needed to inform. Selina perhaps would want to know, and could no doubt be trusted with the information but in her case, it wasn't Dick's call to make. That one he would leave up to Bruce.

That really only left one question: what happened now between him and Bruce? Dick had absolutely no idea how Tim would react to the knowledge, though he tended to think that he'd be so happy to see Bruce alive and well that he'd forget about the lies. Barbara and Gordon were both completely governed by duty and moral fortitude – they would give themselves the time to understand Bruce's reasoning and then forgive him. Dick had no doubts about that.

So, what did he do? His anger was still a physical thing, sitting low in his chest and making it difficult to breathe if he thought about it too strongly. It wasn't just going to up and leave any time soon. He remembered distantly what he'd told Tim during their imprisonment, about how angry he always was about needing to be saved. It was the same principle, he supposed. He'd been hurting, in agony at any given minute and Bruce had emerged out of death itself to spare him from it, only to announce that he hadn't wanted to do it in the first place.

Dick sighed, rubbing at his face with his good hand and pretending it didn't hurt when he did so. Perhaps he wasn't in the right shape to be thinking about this. Maybe when he was whole he'd be able to approach it more levelly.

Or maybe not.

The problem was the anger, Dick realised. Logically, he could understand why Bruce had done it even if it was something so cruel and misguided. But his anger wasn't going to sit around listening to logic and reason, and since it was his anger leading him right now, there wasn't a chance of understanding winning out. He couldn't just let go of his anger.

' _You can.'_

The voice resonated deep within his head, so familiar to him that it was soothing just to imagine it. The childish responses rose in retaliation, a chorus of _'I can't,' 'I'll break,' 'don't make me.'_ As it always had done before, the voice brushed them aside.

' _You have seen worse than this. You have not broken before.'_

Even when he wasn't in the room, Bruce was still able to get inside Dick's head. It was maddening. And yet… It was true. Every time he had though something impossible, Bruce had been right there beside him to guide him onwards and never once had they failed.

In all of Dick's life, there was only one _'I can't,'_ that Bruce hadn't responded to: the one he had whispered to himself as he ducked out of Bruce's funeral a few minutes before the closing words. He hadn't cried then, hadn't been able to do even that, so he cried now, silent tears that leaked from his eyes without his permission or awareness.

"Oh, Master Grayson," said a soft voice from the doorway. Alfred stood watching him with a kindness in his eyes that Dick had missed most of all. He crossed to his bedside and took his good hand in both of his without needing to be asked, giving nothing more than Dick would allow and asking nothing in return. Dick was under the impression that Alfred would sit there with him until judgement day itself if that was what Dick asked of him.

"Thank you," he murmured softly.

Alfred inclined his head slightly. "It is nothing, dear boy."

They didn't need to say anything else; they never had. There was an understanding there that was shared by everyone who had been dragged into the world of Batman either by choice or by unfortunate happenstance, and with that there didn't need to be any communication. Things hurt in Bruce's world – they had all grown used to that a long time ago.

His mind was already made up, Dick decided slowly, with that gentle understanding you feel when you realise that you've always known what the outcome would be even if you didn't want to let yourself see it. Dick would rage and hate for a while – he needed to if he was to rid himself of all that toxic hate – but it would fade as all heightened emotions do. The day would come when he would forgive Bruce, and there was nothing he could do to either speed or hinder that from happening. It would just be.

That was alright, something he could make his peace with. It hurt now because he was Nightwing and he was a superhero and he was a Son of Batman and everything would always be painful for the people who made themselves the shield. But that was alright, because he was _Nightwing._ He had been taught by Batman himself and there was nothing that he couldn't do if he let himself believe it was possible.

It hurt now. But one day, perhaps in a few days or months or years, it wouldn't. What more could he ask?

* * *

 _This was mostly written some time ago, just after I'd finished Arkham Knight. Not sure where it went at the end there but this whole story was originally written as a revival fic so Bruce had to appear at some point and for some reason Tim had to be unconscious for all of that bit. Hell if I know._

 _Hope you enjoyed it._


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